"I'm an attending physician. That means I'm at the hospital at seven in the morning and if I'm lucky, I only work twelve hours."
"Damn," Trev said under his breath.
"You get used to it. I bet you put in almost as many hours between your job and working at your studio."
"I suppose." Trev took a drink of what was left of his coffee. "You should go home and get some sleep."
"We both should. You need it too. Come on. I'll give you a ride."
"I can walk. It's only six blocks, and this is a safe neighborhood." Trev's mouth tightened. "Or it used to be…I thought."
"That is why I'm driving you back."
"Thanks."
After disposing of the remains of their meals, they walked to the lot next to the coffee shop where Zack had parked. When Zack stopped beside a steel-gray motorcycle, Trev looked at it in awe. "That's a YZF-R1."
"You know bikes?" Zack asked, handing Trev a helmet.
"Not really, but I saw this one when John decided he wanted a motorcycle, just before he left to come out here. He never did get one, but I would have given my right nut to have been able to afford buying it."
"My dads gave this to me when I finished my residency, or I'd still be driving the beater I had since I started college."
"Score one for your dads. They have great taste."
"Hop on," Zack said, laughing as he straddled the bike. When Trev did, Zack asked, "Have you ever ridden?"
"Twice, so I know the basics. Lean when you do, hang on to you." He tentatively put his arms around Zack's waist, suddenly getting that riding double on a bike was more than getting from A to B. It was a fairly intimate experience. Maybe too intimate. He could feel the warmth of Zack's back against his chest, and if he moved his hands a bit lower… Shelving that thought quickly, he said, "I'm ready."
Zack revved up the cycle and moments later they were cruising out of the lot onto Colorado and from there onto Eighth. Way too soon, in Trev's opinion, they were parking in front of his building.
"I'm going up with you," Zack told Trev, when they were standing beside the bike. "I want to make sure you haven't had any uninvited visitors while you were gone."
Trev nodded. "Like they came back to see if they could find John's real laptop. Of course, the cops are supposed to be watching for that."
"From outside the building. I'm not taking any chances that whoever is in charge didn't send someone new to get inside."
"Oh, that makes me feel all kinds of safe," Trev groused as he let them into the lobby. But, for some inexplicable reason, he did feel safe, despite Zack's comment. Perhaps it was because the handsome, blue-eyed doctor gave off an aura of strength that belied his chosen profession. More likely though, it was because Zack seemed to care on a personal level.
Now don't go reading anything into this, Trev warned himself. He's just a nice man who doesn't like seeing people hurt—people like me. It comes from his being a doctor and nothing more. Still, he couldn't help but think that the average doctor was not apt to take their patients under their wings the way Zack was doing with him. Makes me wonder how many other men—and women—he's done this with.
"Are you planning on spending the night staring at the open elevator," Zack asked.
"What? Oh, no. Sorry." Trev got on with Zack right beside him and a minute later they were getting off on Trev's floor. "It's this way," Trev said, walking down the hallway and turning right. He could see the door to his apartment at the far end, and for a moment a feeling of dread washed over him. The door was closed, but what if…
Zack gripped Trev's good shoulder, saying, "Give me your keys and the security code, if I need one."
Without any hesitation, Trev did. When Zack opened the door to step inside the apartment, Trev had an almost paralyzing sense of fear, expecting to hear shots ring out. Zack moved out of view and a moment later came back, beckoning for Trev to join him.
"All clear," Zack said. "As far as I can tell, if anyone did break in, they were very neat about it."
Trev didn't bother to reply as he hurried to his bedroom. It looked just as he'd left it. He checked under the mattress. The laptop was gone, but then, he'd expected that.
"Making sure no one got to your stash of pot?" Zack asked with amusement from the doorway.
"No, it's in…" Trev managed to joke.
"Hey, it's legal. You can keep it in a candy bowl on the coffee table, for all I care. What were you looking for?"
"Just making sure the police came and got John's laptop. I mean, I know they did because Quint needed the code so his guy could get in."
"You hid it under the mattress."
"That's where Quint told me to put it."
"Right. Okay, you're forgiven. Now take your pills then go sit on the sofa. As long as I'm here, I'm going to check your wound."
The mere mention of it had it aching again, so Trev had no problems following Zack's orders. Once he was seated, Zack told him to take off his shirt. When he had, Zack removed the dressing and gently probed the area around the wound, causing Trev to wince.
"Sorry. It looks good. No infection but obviously still sensitive."
"No kidding."
"It'll get better soon enough. Of course, all the running around you did today didn't help." Zack asked where Trev had put the dressing materials he'd been given, went to get them, then soon had the wound bandaged again. "Now, off to bed with you, and I mean it."
"I have no intention of arguing. I'll let you out and hit the sack."
They stood, then Zack paused. "Is this one of yours?" he asked, going over to look at a mobile hanging in the corner of the room. When Trev nodded, Zack said, "In that case, I can't wait to see the rest of your work. This is wonderful."
"Thanks," Trev replied, feeling a burst of pride at his words.
When they got to the door, Zack said, "I'll call you late tomorrow afternoon."
Despite Zack's comment about wanting to see more of his art, it took Trev a moment to realize that's why Zack was going to call. He nodded. "Look, thanks for everything, especially for being here tonight."
Zack smiled, their gazes locked, and for a second Trev had the insane urge to kiss him. He quickly looked away, opening the door instead. Zack put his hand over Trev's on the door handle. When Trev looked up at him again, Zack said quietly, "Maybe sometime in the future, when you're not feeling as if you owe me for…something—which you don't, by the way." He touched a finger to Trev's lips, told him again that he'd call him, and left, pulling the door closed with the reminder, "Lock it, and set the alarm."
Trev did, listening to Zack's footsteps receding down the hallway. Did he really mean that? Or was he just…reading my expression and trying to be nice? I suppose I might find out in time—or not.
CHAPTER FOUR
"Lieutenant, can I have a minute?" Quint asked, after rapping on the open door to Harber's office. When the lieutenant beckoned for him to come in, Quint did, putting a sheaf of papers down on the desk then taking the chair opposite his superior.
Harber scanned the top page before looking at Quint. "Information from John Pierce's laptop, I gather. How much is relevant to the case?"
"All of it. It took our computer experts some time to break through the walls he had set up to keep this from prying eyes."
"Why don't you give me the gist of it?"
"It seems that Pierce was involved with a very sophisticated art theft ring."
"Interesting, considering who his roommate was. Is there any reason to believe that Mr Eldridge is a part of it, as well?"
"Not according to the information we have so far."
"Then dig deeper. Everything we know about what happened when Pierce was killed is based on what Eldridge said about the killers. Do we at least know who the guy they called the 'big man' is?"
"There are three possibilities mentioned in Pierce's files. Unfortunately, nothing points specifically to the man who might be the ringleader. One, Arthur Reed, is a local art dealer. Another,
Thomas Carter, is the head of the advertising agency Pierce worked for."
"And the third one?" Harber asked when Quint paused.
"Stephan Alberts. He owns a moderately successful art appraisal firm with locations in several US cities."
"Interesting. That would certainly give him access to paintings and other artwork."
"That's what Clay said when I was picking his brain last night," Quint replied. "He also told me something that never would have occurred to me. The owners of the paintings might not even be aware that they've been stolen."
Harber leaned forward, elbows on his desk, resting his chin on his clasped hands. "Elaborate, please."
"This is how he sees it possibly happening. The owner of a painting wants it appraised for insurance purposes. He hires Alberts' firm. They leave with the painting or keep it, if the owner brought it in, telling the owner it will take a specific amount of time for them to authenticate that it is what it purports to be."
"Either way, it ends up in their place of business."
"Exactly," Quint replied. "This is where Mr Reed comes in. As a gallery owner, he's in contact with various artists. Clay's premise is that he's convinced one or two of them that they can make a great deal more money by forging an existing painting than what they do selling their own works."
"Wouldn't that take time?"
"We're not talking about something that's going to be reappraised any time soon—if ever. Clay says that a good artist who knows what he's doing could conceivably make a copy in a week." Quint chuckled. "According to Clay, if someone wanted him to reproduce a painting that's within his specific style area—say a minor work by Malevich or Elaine de Kooning…" Quint shrugged when Harber looked at him in question, saying, "Don't ask, I have no clue. Anyway, he said if he had a criminal turn of mind, he could knock one out fairly quickly that would fool anyone except a trained appraiser."
"If Clay's scenario is correct, Alberts gets his hands on a painting, has it reproduced by one of Reed's artists, then returns the copy, along with papers authenticating that it's the real thing. How does Pierce's boss, Mr Carter, fit in, since he has nothing to do with art?"
"The graphic designers who work for his ad agency might debate that point," Quint replied, "but that's neither here nor there. Carter could be the go-between—the man who finds the buyers. He could be the money man. It could have been his idea from the beginning, and he brought the others into it. There's nothing in Pierce's files that says one way or another."
"How did you choose those three men to focus on?"
"Because Pierce had copies of emails between the three of them. None of them are incriminating, per se, but the fact that Pierce kept them in a heavily guarded and encrypted file says they had to have been important, as far as he was concerned."
"Next question. Why would Pierce have them at all?"
"My guess is he was working for someone—either a rival gang, or someone who specializes in recovering stolen art."
"The Feds?"
Quint shook his head. "I doubt it would have been them or a foreign agency like Interpol. They'd have known he'd been murdered as soon as the story hit the news outlets and taken over before we knew what hit us. It's more likely it's a professional art recovery group. This again is based on what Clay told me."
Harber lifted an eyebrow. "Your man seems to be awfully well-versed about stolen art."
"What can I say? He's well enough known that he's interested in such things for his own protection."
"Maybe we should send him in undercover to get in contact with Mr Reed," Harber suggested.
"If we're right, that wouldn't work. Clay makes enough money on his paintings that he wouldn't be desperate to get involved in making more illegally. And if Reed is smart, he'd know that and smell a set-up."
"True. So what do you have in mind to stop this gang?"
"Punt?" Quint replied with a tight grin. "Not really. First, we have to find out if Clay's theory is right. And we may have the perfect in for that."
"How?"
"I'll let you know after I do some more checking."
*****
"Doctor Kendall, this is Detective Hawk. We met at the hospital when I was interviewing Trevor Eldridge."
Zack glanced at the time, knowing his brief break was almost over. "How can I help you," he asked, while shrugging on his white coat.
"I'd prefer to tell you in person. When will you be available?"
"Meaning when do I get off duty? With luck, at seven. After that, I'm meeting with Trev, and he's taking me to the studio he rents to look at his sculptures."
There was a momentary pause then Quint said, "Excellent. I'll meet you there."
"Excuse me?" Zack said, as he started down the hall from the cafeteria. "I don't remember inviting you to join us."
"I'm inviting myself. This is too important, if we're going to find Mr Pierce's killers and the man behind them. If I didn't know I wouldn't stand a snowball's chance in hell of corralling you at the hospital long enough to talk, I'd come down there now."
"You're right about that. Okay, I guess I'll see you then. If you need the address, I'll get it for you."
"I have it already. Thanks," Quint replied, before hanging up.
For the rest of his shift, Zack pondered why the detective could possibly want to talk to him. Trev's in the clear for the murder, especially after what happened yesterday. At least he'd better be. I'm sure their forensic pathologist came to the same conclusion I did—that Trev couldn't have shot himself. So what else could it be?
Whatever it was, Zack knew he wouldn't find out until evening. Much to his relief, he was able to leave the hospital by seven fifteen. He immediately called Trev to tell him he was on his way over. Then, as he drove to the apartment, he wondered why Quint hadn't just set it up to meet them there. "I'm sure I'll find out soon enough," he murmured, as he parked his bike and went to press the buzzer for Trev's apartment.
"You look beat," Trev said, as soon as he let Zack into the apartment. "We can do this another time if you want."
Zack smiled dryly. "Not an option. Detective Hawk is meeting us at your studio."
"Why?" Trev asked in surprise.
"I have no idea. He just said he needs to talk to me about something. Since he doesn't seem to care if you hear it too, I guess we can presume he'd not going to try to make me say it's possible you could have shot yourself."
"Either that, or he'll get you to admit I could have, then throw the cuffs on me."
"I don't think he can throw them on you," Zack retorted with a laugh.
"You know what I meant." Trev glanced toward the kitchen, saying, "If you're hungry I can fix you a sandwich or something."
"Naw. Let's get this over with. I mean, finding out what he wants. Then I can concentrate on critiquing your work."
"Ugh. Please don't. Just tell me which ones I should take to the co-op for them to look at. They've seen pictures, but now they want the real thing."
"I can do that. Are you ready to go?"
Trev patted his pockets. "Yep."
He told Zack where they were going and fifteen minutes later, Zack was parking the bike beside what to him looked like a refurbished warehouse. When he said so, Trev told him that's exactly what it was as he led him around front.
Quint was sitting in one of the plastic lawn chairs beside the front door. He stood when they approached and followed as Trev disarmed the security, took them inside then down a pair of hallways to a door with a small sign saying, T. Eldridge. Unlocking the door, Trev stood aside so the others could enter.
"Wow," Zack exclaimed, as he looked at the various mobiles hanging from the ceiling. It took him a minute to realize there were also some on a table along one wall, balanced atop slender tubes imbedded in dark wood. Even the act of opening and closing the door had set some of them in motion.
Zack was surprised when Quint walked over to the table to examine a few of them. He was even more surprised—as was Trev, from the look o
n his face—when the detective said he was very impressed.
"If these are for sale, I'd like to buy one for my partner." Quint chuckled. "He can paint up a storm but he's all thumbs when it comes to anything three-dimensional, art or otherwise."
"Your partner's a painter, as well as a cop?" Trev asked.
"I meant partner as in the man I'm living with, and yes, he's an artist. His name is Clay Richardson."
"You're kidding. The Clay Richardson?" Trev seemed to be flabbergasted.
"I take it you know his work," Quint said, chuckling.
"Yes! If I could paint like him…" Trev sighed. "Of course, first I'd have to be able to paint, and that's not my forte."
"Tell you what. If you want, I can introduce you to him and you can talk art to your heart's content. He'd probably be glad to meet someone who knows the difference between Impressionism and…and…"
"Renaissance, Rococo, Gothic?"
"I guess." Quint lightly touched one of mobiles, setting it in motion, watched it for a moment, then turned his attention to Zack. "I bet you can tell the difference in the various schools of art."
"Probably," Zach agreed.
"Why would you know?" Trev asked.
"My fathers collect art, something Quint is apparently aware of."
"I am. I did a bit of checking up on you, Zack, when the men watching Trev's building said they'd seen you there."
Sardonically, Zack replied, "Afraid I was in cahoots with the guys who killed John Pierce?"
"Not really, but I can't be too careful when a witness is involved. What I did find out… Well, let me start from the beginning."
Quint told them his theory about what Pierce had been mixed up in. "And mind you, at this point it's just a supposition, with no real evidence to back it up, despite what we found on Pierce's laptop," he said in conclusion. "We have no way of proving that Pierce was putting down real facts. He may have been just trying to fabricate something to use as blackmail, if necessary."
"He was part of a theft ring?" Trev said in disbelief.
"So it would seem," Quint replied.
Trev shook his head. "Unbelievable. I didn't know he had it in him."
It Takes An Artist Page 5
